"Left-hand Gun Hill fired, sir," said the bluejacket to the captain.
Nobody cared about left-hand Gun Hill; he was only a 47 howitzer; every glass was clamped on the big yellow emplacement.
"Right-hand Gun Hill is up, sir."
Bang coughs the forward gun below us; bang-g-g coughs the after-gun overhead. Every glass clamped on the emplacement.
"What a time they take!" sighs a lieutenant—then a leaping cloud a little in front and to the right.
"Damn!" sighs a peach-cheeked midshipman, who—
"Oh, good shot!" For the second has landed just over and behind the epaulement. "Has it hit the gun?"
"No such luck," says the captain: he was down again five seconds after we fired.
And the men had all gone to earth, of course.